Top 5 Strangest Moments in Downtown Los Angeles
Interactions both frightening and enlightening over 2 years in LA.
Downtown Los Angeles: a sometimes-gorgeous, sometimes-frustrating neighborhood where the red and blue of police lights mingle along the walls with the purple and gold of Lakers stadium spotlights. Abandoned, spray-painted high-rises from the early 1900s straddle the same sidewalks as gargantuan glass skyscrapers. Nowhere else have I seen a Ferrari parked along the same curb as a pile of human feces.
The stories I collected in DTLA are both frightening and enlightening. I will carry them with me for years to come — no matter what I pay in therapy.
Last summer, when our lease was up, we considered moving to a different neighborhood. But as we walked home from a bar, or a restaurant, or maybe the rooftop cinema, I looked up at the bright lights of the city and declared: “I’m not done with my Downtown era yet.”
One year later, I can officially share that I am done — so very, very done with my Downtown era.
Here are some of my strangest, craziest, most confusing and entertaining experiences from that two-year era.
The Ralph’s Rotisserie Chicken Thief
The Ralph’s of Downtown is the lawless West. It’s not like the Erewhon of Beverly Hills with its $60 potato salad, or the Trader Joe’s of La Brea, with fancy tote bags and TikTok meal preppers. It’s not even like the Ralph’s of other neighborhoods, where I assume theft is irregular and fist fights are infrequent.
The Ralph’s of Downtown is the grocery store you’d encounter in Fallout, should supermarkets survive the post-apocalypse.
The brutal rhythm of dogs fighting emanates over the aisles, as though Mike Vick’s pit bulls themselves were leashed with the organic granola. Pyramid-scheming teenagers wearing fresh fades and tight suits hawk Internet plans to the disoriented elderly. The lone security guard smokes a cigar by the entrance while klepto shoppers float among the aisles like three-point shooters roaming the court for an open shot.
Only, in Ralph’s, rotisserie chickens are not worth three points. They’re worth $11.99 — in-store only, available 7am-11pm, while supplies last.
I know this because I was shopping for one myself the day that I encountered the Rotisserie Chicken Thief. He crept below the warm glow of the deli roasters, a bandana over his head and a backpack strung upon one shoulder. I rounded the roaster to his corner, comparing the prices and poundage on display to those of rotisseries past — Publix, Winn-Dixie, Giant, Shop-Rite.
That’s when it occurred to me that my neighbor’s backpack was open. His arm was dipped into the bag, shoulder-deep.
With eyes still glued to the roaster, the thief snarled at me.
“Mind your fucking business.”
A suspiciously chicken-shaped object slid to the bottom of the bag, grease pools and plastic cover and all. Then the backpack burped up his arm and his hand returned unscathed to the zipper.
I didn’t end up buying my rotisserie chicken from Ralph’s. Not because the thief scared me, or because he stole the last chicken, or because my own backpack couldn’t fit one. But because $12 per chicken seemed like the real robbery that day.
A Man Called Horse
I’ve seen horses on several occasions in DTLA, most commonly under the holstered asses of policemen. But only once have I seen a man named Horse.
We were in the Golden Gopher, a chic dive opened in 1905 and, according to the bouncer, once owned by Teddy Roosevelt himself. The bar is wedged between Uncle John’s, an Asian kitchen and American diner fusion, and the Garfield Building, a historic art deco high-rise that has stood abandoned for longer than I’ve been alive.
Inside the Golden Gopher, chandeliers hang over Pac-Man machines and a single pool table. A carryout station by the entrance advertises preemptive hangover remedies and an “Out-the-Door Boilermaker” for competitive prices. The bar’s smoking section looms in the alley, complete with personal pizzas baking in a pop-up oven beneath the Garfield’s vacant windows.
All of these factors — the history, the arcade games, the dive prices, the smoking alley pizza — combine to attract an eclectic cast of characters.
Case in point: a man named Horse. Maddee and I were sitting at the bar, minding our business, when an older guy squeezed in next to us. As he closed out his tab, the bartender thanked him and returned to the register. The man turned to leave but, just before doing so, doubled back, and shouted across the bar-top.
“Y’know, people call me Horse.”
The bartender waved a lazy acknowledgement. It seemed plausible that he’d heard this information before. And so Horse walked away, unfazed, with his final round in his equine hand.
You may wonder why an adult man went by the name Horse. You may question who bequeathed the name, or who could possibly go along with it.
The bigger question, the one that has preoccupied me for months, is this:
Why did Horse double back to inform the bartender of his dubious name? Like it was urgent, consequential information?
I’ve learned not to question these things, or think about them too long. Otherwise, I’ll get a headache, or an ulcer.
One could say that, after two years in LA, I’ve learned never to look a gift Horse in the mouth.
Woman Defecating on a Parking Meter
One time I saw a woman drop trow outside the Karl Strauss Brewing Company and defecate onto the shaft of a side-street parking meter.
That’s all.
Fake Interview
It was a hot summer’s workday when I was accosted on the street and forced to change my perspective on life.
My tactic for walking to work on warm days was to suffer in silence, sprinting as fast as I could through the dry heat, then spending the first ten minutes of work fanning myself off by the water cooler. But every now and then a red light would snag me, and I would find myself unable to jaywalk, stuck in a relentlessly sunny patch of the street, eyes straining through the sunlight.
Out of this brightness, and into my squinted vision, approached the wannabe TV personality.
“We’re here live, interviewing people on the street!”
The man shoved his pinched forefinger and thumb in front of my mouth, pantomiming a mini microphone. I scanned the sidewalk for cameras, hidden or otherwise. Finding none, I realized that I had just become the special guest of a very fake, very obscure talk show, hosted by an eccentric, if not friendly lunatic.
As much as I wanted to ignore the stereotypes about shabby, overly social street lunatics, this particular man was a walking red flag. Who was to say my work laptop wouldn’t be swiped from my backpack while he “interviewed” me? What if the “interview” was a poor excuse to follow me into my office, where he would then pull a weapon?
The risks were few, and the rewards were bleak. But, sensing no escape, I played his game while the crosswalk timer ticked.
“Tell us your name,” the friendly lunatic said.
“Mike.”
“Where are you off to today, Mike?”
“Work.”
“And what are you gonna do after that?”
Maddee was in Hawaii for the rest of the summer. I was struggling to occupy myself living in a new city and had no plans to speak of. Certainly nothing exciting enough to share with the imaginary audience watching in their imaginary homes.
“Eat dinner.”
“And after that?”
“Drink a beer.”
“And after that?”
“Go to sleep.”
“And after that?”
“Wake up tomorrow.”
“And after that?”
“Eat breakfast.
“And after that?”
The crosswalk signal switched. The pearly white light of safety beckoned me, but my host’s bright smile never faltered.
“And after that?” he asked again.
“I’ll do it all over again, I guess.”
There was something tortuous about admitting to a total stranger that I had no life. Here was a guy who knew how to make the most of things — a comfort zone invader, who I had initially clocked as a threat, but was simply exercising his right to meet strangers and learn more about his fellow neighbors.
Inspired by this interaction, I would make major changes in order to enjoy my summer. I would reach out to an old friend who happened to live in LA, and have a great night bar-hopping in Culver City. I would sign up for improv classes, honing an old hobby while meeting great people. And I would begin regularly attending the writing workshop at the LA Public Library, which put me on track to eventually apply to grad school.
But for now, I was just some stranger on a fake TV show, absorbing the positivity of a man who had a lot to teach me about the intricacies of life Downtown, no matter how reluctant I was to learn.
“Thank you for your time,” he said, and smiled. And we were both on our ways, never to meet again.
Honorable Mentions
The part-time chef, full-time nurse who bought me a shot of Maker’s Mark and said I looked like Hozier. (I am still riding that compliment into the sun.)
The shoeless man in a kebab shop who told me with zero explanation that “something about a great story” would or had already occurred to me.
The woman I saw holding a muppet out of a window above a parking garage, putting on a little performance for the people below.
Shouts out to…
Everyone, mentioned above or otherwise, who helped to make my time in DTLA worthwhile, in spite of the ups and downs, as I finish and publish this newsletter from Tuscaloosa, AL.
